Searching for Mr. Wryte in a sea of Mr. Wrongs

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It’s always risky business asking someone out whom you meet at a Halloween party. Especially when that person was dressed as a hula dancer with a major spray tan, coconut bra, and a very long black wig. Halloween Romeo took the risk, but I don’t think he was happy about the pale girl with short blondish hair who answered the door when he came to pick me up. Surprise! Dinner reservations had been made at an awesome Mexican restaurant, however, so the show had to go on. Grass skirt or not.

Soon into our meal it was me that was caught off guard. Surprise! Your date’s a total jerk! He mentioned at least 5 times that he was ‘extremely attractive’… and told plenty of stories about himself and his frat brothers who all were a lot like him: “You know…really tall, REALLY good looking…we are the kind of people who EVERYONE notices when we walk into a room….” (Yes, real sentence that I will remember forever.) He asked me a few questions about myself, and I thought he was listening intently to my answers. Surprise! He was just lost in a deep love affair with his extremely attractive reflection in the mirrored Spanish tiles on the wall behind my head.

After drowning both of our sorrows in a few margaritas, he drove me home. Upon pulling into my driveway, three things happened in pretty quick succession. 1. I said thank you. 2. He said, “So do you still have that hula outfit?” 3. I got out of the car. Surprise!

The light was dim, the mood was set, and a lone moth was fluttering around the candle on our table. Suddenly and without warning, said moth fluttered up and directly into my date’s open mouth. His MOUTH. I, not wanting to embarrass the guy, pretended to be very interested on something on the other side of the restaurant–hoping that he would think I didn’t see this atrocity. Not missing a beat, Mothman reached into his mouth, simultaneously smashing and pulling the little creature off of his tongue. He looked at the dead moth carcass in his fingers and with one swift motion he schmeared it across the entire front of his light blue polo shirt like cream cheese on a bagel. And I got to look at it for the rest of our meal.

Luckily before I became too engrossed in the unfortunate predicament of our insect friend, Mothman had another trick up his sleeve. (I will preface by saying that our server had very large breasts, with which my date was quite obviously enamored.) His eyes didn’t leave her torso area as she bobbled and bounced (literally) from table to table. I was in the middle of a sentence when Mothman interruped me by calling her over to our table. He let her know the food was great, asked her name, and proceeded to talk to her about her tattoos. (I will also offer as an aside that this guy was perhaps the least likely person in the entire restaurant to know anything about ink.) “Well Kelsie, how about I get a photo of that skull on your arm? That’s a cool one…I think my friend would like to see it.” And HE DID…get a photo….not so much of the tattoo, however. I’ll give you one guess what his little iPhone camera was focused upon. And then he posted the photo on Facebook. And that’s when I knew our time together was pretty much over. (Last aside…this is the real photo. Great shot of the skull, don’t you think?)

So we met in a bar. He was nice…we were dancing…and then the lights came on and it was time to go home. He said he wasn’t going to let me leave him that easily and asked if I would like to drive him home. (PS: Don’t tell my parents I give rides to strangers.) He directed me through the streets across town. We arrived in front of his house and I must say that I was very impressed. He had told me he was a teacher. He was young, so I wasn’t expecting anything fancy. To the contrary, his sizable home was in a very nice part of town and had great curb appeal. We walked inside and I exclaimed, “Wow…this is beautiful!!” To which my date responded, “Shhhh!!!! You’re going to wake them up!” Ah yes. The parents.

Now, I realize a normal girl may have turned on hear heels and walked out, but I decided that there was no harm in staying for just a little bit. His room was downstairs, so there seemed to be no danger of running into said parents mid-hallway for a late night bathroom trip. We were in his bedroom when suddenly his dog began humping my leg. Now, let me tell you that I do like dogs. In fact, I love them. However, I don’t love them humping my leg while I am already in a bit of an awkward situation.

“Um….your dog is on my leg…”

“What? Oh. Yeah, Charlie does that.”

“So…can you make him stop?” (As I’m trying to non-violently kick him off my calf.)

“C’mon baby, just go with it. Just goooooo with it….”

I still laugh out loud at this sometimes. Unfortunately for my new friend, I couldn’t bring myself to just ‘go with it’ so I was soon making my way towards the door. He actually pleaded for me to stay the night. His offer was pretty hard to refuse: he would put Charlie in the other room and maybe his mom would make me some of her famous blueberry pancakes in the morning. He assured me they were delicious. As I excused myself, he followed behind me whispering, “Really!? Please!? Pancakes!?”

He asked me to go for a walk. I arrive at his house to find him dressed fully in hiking attire, complete with an over-the-shoulder knapsack, a bottle of water, and a handkerchief around his neck. I feel unbelievably silly standing with my cell phone in hand, wearing jeans and New Balance sneakers. He chastises me for arriving sans-water and prepares me a bottle. I wonder how far we must be going. I suddenly wish I had been explicit in asking more details.

Off we go. Ten seconds into the ‘walk’ and I realize my companion is a whistler. Constant whistler. He stops to ask me a question and then whistles as I give my response. I wonder what is in his knapsack. I also wonder if he can her me over his annoying melody. I wonder where we are going as a I follow along with my professional hiker through the downtown blocks.

We arrive at the park and my questions are unexpectedly answered. Out of the knapsack comes a saw. A hacksaw. Huh. I think about running. He is unaware of my sudden change in color as he starts pruning a small tree. Is this legal? I have no idea. But he’s not planning on sawing off my limbs from what I can tell, so that’s good.

As our walk turns into a two hour affair, he shares with me me the intricacies of ever single tree that we pass (and sometimes prune). Also from his knapsack and pockets come a small trowel, some mulch, a few bits of twine, and some grass seed. We spend at least 10 minutes on one “poor soul” getting her back into good shape while he talks with her and shares that she is a valuable member of this park and we don’t want her to die just yet.

He fills my pockets with acorns and interesting rocks and gingko leaves. He rushes us to get home before the sun sets so that he can show me a “surprise.” Johnny’s surprise is found in his kitchen inside a Mason jar. A butterfly that he nurtured from when it was still a caterpillar. And now, “TODAY, my dear, together we will be blessed to witness her first flight!”

With tears in his eyes, he opens the jar and we watch the creature alight, landing quickly on a tree in his yard. He cries openly and deeply. I feel awkward. And that, my friends, is how I learned about Johnny Appleseed.

Over the past year or so of dating, I have encountered several would-be-suitors who have, interestingly enough, had the exact same tactic. It is a tactic:

1. that I do not understand

2. to which I do not know the appropriate response

3. that simply cannot be a very effective way to start a relationship

What is it, you may ask? Well, let me give you a textbook scenario to illustrate my point. Truly…this is TEXTBOOK from my experience so far.

I meet a guy on match.com. We send a few emails back and forth through the site, then exchange phone numbers and start texting a bit. Now, if this potential date is over the age of 30, we eventually agree to talk on the phone and/or meet in person. If this potential date is under the age of 30…it has been WITHOUT FAIL that the following happens. We are texting back and forth…things seem to be going well, and then I get a text completely out of the blue that looks like this:

Ah. The faceless shirtless bathroom mirror cell phone shot. Worthy almost of a Time Magazine article entitled something like, “The 20-something athletic guy: An unprecedented phenomenon of cell phone bathroom photos.” Really!? At first I thought it was a bit funny, but soon came to realize it is more common than not to send one of these to someone you have never even spoken to in person or even over the phone.

So…my initial questions stand. What is the expected response to this cavalier move? To say, “Wow…you’re hot,” or perhaps, “I’m so turned on right now!”? I have no idea. I have tried several different sentences, most all of which seem quite silly considering the subject is standing in the bathroom mirror and usually there is a toilet in the background. One guy kept sending me the same photo over and over. It was him in a steamy bathroom mirror fresh from the shower with a dangerously low towel around his sculpted waist. Each time I would respond with a different ‘you’re so hot’ compliment…which was true…but I don’t enjoy feeling like I’m being forced to tell someone! Eventually, he gave up on me, apparently not getting the answer for which he was searching.

Or maybe, it isn’t really a sentence they are looking for at all. Perhaps they are doing wordless request for a scandalous photo of me? What would that look like? A bikini shot? A bra? No shirt at all? Hmmm. As long as it was faceless and in the bathroom, maybe they body part doesn’t matter. Who knows. These 20-something boys are quite curious to me. How did this random practice get started in the first place? Is it commonplace for 20-someting females to have multiple shirtless photos in their SMS inbox at any given time? Have the 20-something ladies mastered the correct response to this odd practice? Please, if you do know….enlighten this obviously older (and more conservative) female.

I went to a bar alone. I’m not an alcoholic, nor do I frequent drinking establishments more often than a normal single 20-30 something woman. My friends had ditched on our plans to go out and I decided that I would Keep Calm and Carry On with the evening’s festivities by myself. I was being independent…or at least maintaining the appearance of being so.

The hole-in-the-wall bar was smoke-filled enough that I soon realized I probably shouldn’t have spent so long applying my makeup. I doubted anyone could see through the haze well enough to tell if my mascara was gloppy or not. I had just sat down and ordered a drink when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a fur-coat wearing African American gentleman giving me a wink from his corner spot at the bar.

My soon-to-be companion was a stand-out (to say the least) among the mostly plaid-shirt and jeans patrons of the small-town neighborhood watering hole. Dr. Love’s attire was this: fur coat, sunglasses, brimmed hat, several gold chains, leather vest, leather pants, and a gold ring on every finger. And he promptly strutted over to sit at the empty stool by my side. Perfect. My night out alone had lasted about 4 minutes.

He took off his sunglasses slowly and looked me up and down. “Are you single tonight? Because I am,” he said with a gold-toothed grin. I wondered how these people seem to find me. I told Dr. Love that my friends were probably going to come soon but I could talk with him for a bit. Lie Number One. He told me that I was the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen. And he should know because he “knows his white women.” I abruptly shared that my friend was calling and probably needed directions to the bar. Lie Number Two. I escaped outside, called my friend who bailed and told her that she sucked. She wished me luck with my situation, laughed, and then hung up.

I returned to my stool. “So what is your name ?” I asked. He grinned again.”Well Sugar, you can call me Dr. Love.” He asked me if I knew how to cook a mean dinner. Because his woman “best be needing to know how to flip a skillet.” He explained that he makes the money and his woman stays home. “And don’t you worry none. I’ll take good care of you. I even got me two houses. One’s a trailer…but it still counts.” I admired his optimism. Apparently my reaction was favorable enough for him to take our relationship a step further. Dr. Love asked what size ring I wore. Because he just happened to have this one here (as he produced a gold prize from his pocket) that he thought was “just about right for my sweet little finger.”

I said that I had to use the restroom. Lie Number Three. I spent a very long time in the stall pondering my escape route. When I returned, Dr. Love was getting more determined. He wanted to walk me to the parking lot so I could see his car. He described it as a “brown classic” just like him. In hopes of not ending up on the morning news, I said that my friend had called and we were going to another bar instead. Lie Number Four. He asked if he could come along. We could ride together in the brown classic. I said no thanks. He waved the vending-machine gold ring towards me and said with a sideways grin, “Sugar…you don’t know what you be missin…” I suppose that was true. I can’t say that I did know what I would be missing, but my curiosity was certainly outweighed by my common sense. I don’t like fur coats too much anyway.

I joined match.com. Yup. Not sure yet if it is actually going to help me find a real boyfriend or if it is going to help me find more chapters for this blog. This week’s date turned out to be the latter.

I, being perpetually intrigued with humans in general, decided to take things a step further with a guy who seemed pretty cute in his profile photos. Longish hair, a cute dog, and an RV in which he had traveled the country for three years. He is now settled in a house but I was, of course, curious about him and his travels.

Initial meeting was a little awkward…he was cute, but his hair had grown several inches since the photos on match.com. I secretly wondered if he was growing it out for Locks of Love. I also secretly felt like I was sitting across the table from Jay from Mallrats.

Ten minutes into dinner, he says, (entirely unrelated to our conversation) “Yeah…so I totally believe in aliens.” And, not missing a beat, takes another bite of his sandwich. Apparently, I come to discover, he believes specifically in the blue 6-armed variety. I do not have much experience in this area, but he assures me that they do exist. And not to worry…but some aliens actually look just like us humans and you really can’t tell the difference at all. “I mean, damn, I could be an alien and you would never even know!” And smiling, takes another bite of his sandwich.

Fascinating. His RVing stories are good. He doesn’t really have job so to speak of, but he does recycle vegetable oil for money. Then I got the full run-down as he excitedly tells me his converted truck could go for 4,000 miles without having to stop for more vegetable oil. He recommends I look into converting my Volvo. Apparently this is good if you are trying to outrun blue aliens.

“I’m a sucker for pot, too.” I smile at his lack of transition sentences and the addition of ‘too’ which implies that we had been talking about something remotely similar in the sentence before. He proceeds to give me plenty of details including how once he gets started it is ‘like waaaaaay hard for him to stop’. Super.

After dinner we are having a drink at another bar. Jay says: “So…I have to tell you this….since you’re pretty dressed up and all… (I had on jeans and a sweater)…this is the ‘most fanciest’ outfit I have. The rest of my clothes are real casual. I hope you don’t have a problem with that.” His attire consisted of a trench coat, hiking boots, long underwear shirt, Amsterdam t-shirt, and camouflage pants. I smile and say that I like camouflage. Aliens are so confused by it.

The pinnacle of our date was a first and hopefully a last for me. He tells me from across his captain and coke that he is a two-time felon. Once for failing to testify in a murder trial and once for inflicting serious bodily injury with his car. (Apparently people really do drive through human chains. I never knew that.) He looks at me and smiles. “Damn. Most people get all freaked about that. You didn’t even flinch. We are gonna get along great.”